I'm not sorry...

When I was a little girl, I used to apologize for everything. Was it too bright that day? It was clearly my fault. Was the air a little cold? It was definitely my doing. When someone chirped up with even the tiniest complaint, such as, "Gee my feet hurt," my immediate reply would be a sudden and fearful, "I'm sorry!"

I blame my childhood. Mostly because I was a child and, well, I can't blame my adulthood, it hasn't happened yet. When I was little, for some unknown reason, the entire family decided things would always be my fault. If I had not been somewhere for weeks, I would come back and people would say to me, "Oh, it rained while you were gone! Why did you do that!?" They thought it was funny. I'm sure it was at the time.

It gave me a fucking complex. For years. Many. Many years.

And by many, I mean 'until pretty fucking recently'. See, I still apologize for everything. Not NEARLY as much anymore and, well, these days I pretty much refuse to apologize even for things I did (depends, really). People blame me for something and instead of apologizing these days, I just fix it. I'm so damn fucking sick of saying I'm sorry to people.

And you know why?

Because I don't fucking have to.

I'm hyper. Very hyper. I jump and get excited and just when you think, "Hey I know, I'll get excited too." it... just makes me worse. When someone else starts jumping, I start jumping and it becomes a cycle. Four year olds love me. For many many many years I apologized for this. I tried to cover it up. I had to not be hyper. People really don't like hyper for the most part, did you know that? Also, hyper is almost always paired up with 'stupid'. I did everything I could to not be hyper. If someone said, "Gee, you're hyper!" I'd apologize. I'm so sorry I'm hyper. I'll try not to do it again.

Fuck it. I'm fucking hyper. I'm twenty fucking four and I'm STILL hyper. It's not going away. No amount of alcohol, drugs, medications, etc will make me not hyper. And, well... it's not a bad thing. And screw the people who think it is! So what if I'm hyper? You're not me. You don't live with me. My husband loves my hyper (although admittedly it's a bit much for him sometimes too - but the best thing about me is I love honesty. Tell me to fuck off... and I will!). I'm sick of apologizing for an aspect of me that never changed.

That will never change.

And this is not the only thing I have done this with. And many of my friends too. Apologizing or being embarassed for things that make you, well, you. I cannot honestly recall a single time where I saw a woman snort when she laughed and I thought, "Ugh, how nerdy"... every single time I thought to myself, "Aw, that's cute!" and yet, every single time someone has done it around me they were humiliated, embarassed and apologetic. You snort when you laugh. Some people don't like it. Some people, like me, do. So why apologize for an aspect of yourself that may or may not make someone happy? Take your fucking chances!!! If they don't want to be your friend because of your laugh do you really want to be their friend?!

So. I'm hyper. And I'm bubbly. I'm excitable. I'm exceedingly and probably annoyingly (especially to the chronically depressed) positive. I exaggerate sometimes without meaning to. I blurt out sexist jokes on occasion without meaning to. When men piss me off, I aim for the crotch - fist or words, it's gonna get one of 'em. I love animals to the point of absurdity. I can take a genuine interest in simple basic things like curtain design or spoons. I read really quickly. I walk really quickly. I eat really quickly. I sometimes forget my keys. I always forget my glasses. I would lose my face if it weren't for mirrors. When I'm really insanely happy and I smile super big, my tooth sticks out really far and I look like a horse. Sometimes I just don't remember to do things. Sometimes I try to do too much. I am so sure I can do anything that I sometimes fuck things up because I won't let a professional do it. I eat things I dropped on the floor. I like expensive things. I like cheap things.

And you know what... I'm okay with all of that. It's just me. And I'm not going to apologize for it any more.

*ded*

My first photo on my blog as a new wife is just like me - classy.

So I am back from my wedding, which wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I had some horrible people treat me in some horrible ways (see "I am not a Bridezilla" and then add another 20 crappy things, only from 'friends') right up until the wedding so I was nervous, stressed and basically on the verge of calling the whole thing off. ("Why get married if nobody will be there!?" I cried.)

It was worth it and I'd do it 100 times. The people that were there... well, they were the ones that mattered, now weren't they? Some of my closest friends came hell or high water, risking even death (!) to come to my wedding!

But now, now I know I have surrounded myself with quite possibly the world's best people. I have great taste, I think. Looking around at my wedding at all the people that were there for me just made me realize that it really isn't about quantity, but about quality and damned if my wedding was based on quality guests, I'd get a fucking medal.

At one point I was standing in the aisle and we all realized nobody had my music! My music! What were we going to do? All of a sudden one of my closest friends says to me, "Wait, I have a solution!" and whispers to me. I forgot. My friend.. is an opera singer. And only usually a drunk one. But there we go, stone cold sober and she sings for me. Sings loud and clear and beautifully for me to walk down the aisle. Screw iPods. Screw predone orchestrated music from a speaker system. I accidentally had a live opera singer sing me down the aisle. Beat that from your friends!

I am looking forward to writing out thank you cards. Wedding gifts rule. So thoughtful, really. I want to describe the things I got but I fear if I forget one, I will be just distraught with horror at the idea of offending someone who gave me a fantastic gift. Let it be known though that there wasn't a single damn gift I either didn't need, didn't want or couldn't use a million times over. And I'm hard to shop for!! Some people actually got me kitchen things I didn't have! Who can do that? My friends!

So now it's all over and my mother is gone, the coffee machine broke during the wedding so it's not on the counter, the dishes are all over the place, my candles are in a box in the garage... and sadly when we got home, one of our parrots had to be taken care of until she passed on, so her cage is missing as well. The house feels eerily empty and like we just moved into it - what with living out of laundry baskets and plates on the counter. I'm working on fixing it up - but we're still missing my adorable parrot sounds.

So it really IS like a new beginning for us, I suppose. We're putting away all our beautiful gifts (sheepskin rugs! two person woven picnic sets! digital photo frames! Tupperware! blankets! booze! GOOD BOOZE! Money! Shit I did what I said I wouldn't!) and even our own stuff so it does feel all brand new.

I feel different, the boy doesn't. I feel older and more mature. Possibly because I nearly killed myself with stress. I think I aged 6 years. I also lost some hair. Okay, I lost a lot of hair. But nobody noticed. Nobody even noticed my missing earring (except just before the wedding one whole person did). I stressed for nothing.

So now it's time for peppermint tea and naps. With kangaroos.

Don't Count Your Fois Gras Before They Hatch!

5 days until I get married. 10 days until baby chickens hatch. 30 days until we have baby ducks. And possibly only a week until we have kittens. Due to an overwhelming oversight in feline Houdini magic, a big fat orange tabby managed to make his way into my home about 6-7 weeks ago to give my 5 month old (at the time) little kitten a what-for. Figuring I had a couple months to fix her after the wedding, I was a bit taken off guard. I didn't witness the what-for and had actually assumed it didn't occur since I only found the behemoth in my garage, not the house itself. Judging by the belly...kittens.

So, I fail at cat ownership. In my defense, the little thing is barely seven months old and was always kept indoors. In my defense, cats are notorious for doing this and I should've just really known better.

However I really seem to WIN at duck ownership. I candled the eggs last night under my newly-nesting Lady Duck, who is Elvis's girlfriend, the muscovy. It appears we have two duds but SIX ducklings. My current problem is I made the mistake of not separating Muscovy eggs from Blue/Silver Swedish and Muscovies take about 4-5 days longer to hatch than Swedes, so hopefully this works. I'm GUESSING that the two duds might be Muscovies because her and Elvis are new to mating and, since it does take longer to grow, might not be duds at all, just slow-growing Muscys.

Lady Duck

So I am excited. I really don't know what kind of ducks she's hatching and I'm pretty sure she doesn't care, she's been stealing the unfertilized chicken eggs (much to my poor hand's distress when I need to retrieve them) and trying to hatch those as well. As you can see, she's plucked much of her gorgeous ducky down feathers and built her nest up with them. I have wild notions of sitting there for hours picking through it all to get enough fluff to make a pillow. Clearly this will end after about 10 minutes of cursing, but I like my wild notions nonetheless.

My fiance made a sook last night because I was excitedly telling people of my ducklings and kittens. "You are more excited about babies than you are about marrying me this week," he said. I felt bad, but he's not right - it just appears that way.

See, when you're about to get married, you talk about it a lot and people get, well, kind of sick of it. So you try not to talk about it as much. Only... the day gets closer the less you try to talk about it. So you feel like a rubberband about to snap wanting to describe your dress for the 1056387th time to your friend because the day is only a week away but you know you're just going to get an evil glare, so you don't.

... but this is my blog, so fuck you guys.

My dress is gorgeous! And the amazing tailor at Admiral's Quarters in Brisbane CBD really knows how to take care of people. Not trusting any tailor with Glynn's first suit, especially at Hugo Boss prices, I knew this particular tailor was, well, good. I've used him before. He has excellent prices, takes pride in his suits and it always willing to help you out and make you feel great - even if you're the 10,000th bride he's seen that day. He'll excitedly whisk you into a beautiful dressing room and professionally but nicely compliment you and help you any way he can. The whole experience is over before you knew it began - and the whole thing is relatively painless. Even the price - so I thought I'd put a little advertisement here for them. Stuart's Suits is just below (but inside) Admiral's Quarters and is fan-fucking-tastic.

Truth be told, I'm panicking just a little. Didn't think I would but I think my mother makes me panic and well, she's here. So I feel like I've got to entertain, plan a wedding, make sure she's proud of me, farm and get married all in the same week. All while feeling scrutinized beyond recognition. It's been making me nervous and I've been dropping things, stuffing up recipes, feeling sorry for myself and even crying - which is something I really don't do these days.

It's not hard, I'll say that. It's easy, life. It's just complicated. So many things to do, I feel a little overwhelmed but I don't feel so terribly challenged. I know I can do it. I know it'll be fine.

This might also be why I just start going on about ducklings and how excited I am 5 days before my wedding. Because actually talking about the wedding makes me start hyperventilating.

6 ducklings!!! 6 beautiful gorgeous roasted ducks. 200 bars of duck fat soap. 24 litres of duck stock. 3 gorgeous duck down pillows or 1 duck down blanket. 6 servings of hand-made fois gras.

DUCKS!

It Must Suck to Be A Man

I am probably going to alienate my female counterparts with this statement but I gotta say; I am so glad I'm a woman. I've started to really pay attention to men and I gotta say, it really isn't all it's cracked up to be.

First off, men's self esteems have got to be going down the toilet these days. Hey I'm all for female empowerment but this attitude of, "Ha we can make babies without you, we don't even need you for that!" is, well, not really going to inspire confidence in someone. I don't see why, in order to climb the ladder, we have to put others down. Is it really fair to put the men below us after all these years working for equality?

My partner is supposed to take pretty cruel insults as a joke. Jokes about weight, penis size, intelligence... every day, from everyone. Men and women included. As a woman, I don't have to deal with this. I don't regularly get insulted for my genitalia. How would a woman feel if as an every day joke we said to her, "Oh you drive an XR8? SOMEONE must have the biggest pussy!" You'd probably get slapped. Though if a man slapped you for the comment, he'd get arrested.

Constantly being berated and humiliated and told you're worthless aside - men also have a harder time in social situations, in my opinion. The male interaction 'rules' are just as complicated as women's PLUS they have to deal with women's! Women don't have to learn men's social constructs, but they sure as hell have to learn ours! Which leads to awkward situations when the poor things get it wrong.

It's a man's job to advance on a woman. A woman who could or could not be interested. A woman who could or could not like jokes as an opening. A woman who could or could not have a huge muscular husband around the corner. A woman who could have pepperspray in her handbag and you pray, oh hell you pray, you don't look like a mugger. Or she could just quite possibly shoot you down with a, "Go away jackass." Fantastic, you're a jackass and all you said was hello...

So women insult you and think it's funny. Men insult you and think it's funny. You're a jackass for saying hello. You're a jackass for opening her door. Damnit, you're a jackass for not opening her door. Does anybody compliment you? Does anybody tell you good job? No, not really, because a good job is EXPECTED of you. You're a grown man, you're what everyone compares themselves to (take it like a man) so you can't make mistakes. You can't cry. You can't show emotions. You can't accept compliments if you even get them because the best is expected of you.

Yeah... this is what I think about. How hard it must be to be a man. How hard it must be to work my ass off 9 hours a day with my hands cracking from the job, my coworkers making small dicks jokes about me, my boss making a joke about how he should pay me less as I wipe the sweat from my brow, the woman who works next door ignores me because I think I stared at her just slightly too long one afternoon when I was thinking about something completely different...then I get to go to the bar to enjoy the one beer I've been waiting for all day when a 'friend' slaps me on the sunburn, makes another small dick joke and when I finally...finally... get home... I could really just use someone who treats me like a human.

And that's why I always make sure to thank him. Thank him for working so hard. Tell him how great he's doing at keeping the house tidy for me. Tell him how great he's doing going to work every day so we can pay for the wedding. I make sure to compliment the fit of his clothes on him, the new haircut he has, and his eyes, though he's heard it a million times. I make sure to tell him he's wonderful. I always try my best to say thank you. Thank you for being there for me. Thank you for cooking tonight. Thank you for wiping the counters. Thank you for going to work today even though you really didn't want to.

Just because they're men it doesn't mean they don't deserve our compassion. It's hard to be us. It's hard to be them. We're both stuck with it - so we might as well be nice to each other and remember, men need to hear their ass looks great in those jeans too.

Win

I'm winning a lot lately. I don't know why or how, but things seem to be rocking into my favour these last couple months. I mean, besides that whole almost dying thing. Perhaps I'm just happier from that? No, no, I am definitely winning more.

Little things; like just barely making every single light on the road, finding that book I always wanted to buy on sale for $2, finding an exact replica of my wedding dress for $800 less than the original, getting to use certain things for free or even getting things for free from people for simply asking, and even managing to get my TV show on the right channel at the right time without even looking at a clock. Even personal goals in my head such as making it to the 1/3rd mark at 1/3rd my estimated time to a destination. As a bonus to that trip I even hit the 1/2 mark at 1/2 my estimated travel time. How win is that!?

I'm finding money, saving money, earning more. I'm getting more for jobs. I somehow managed to grow asparagus from seed. Managing to get the exact to the cm amount of jam for the amount of jars I prepared (come ON that's a serious win!). I've gotten free bags of fruits and vegetables for the chickens and even myself. I was accidentally delivered too many bags of oranges once. I've gotten deals on meat, fruits, vegetables and even fish.

I can't seem to stop winning. It's like the roulette wheel keeps falling on my number over and over. Well, to be fair, I bought a scratchy and lost that, but who cares? I can handle little loses if I keep having a bunch of wins like I have been.

This better continue!

What a S'morgasbord!

The other day I was sitting at home minding my own business when my stomach said, "I could really use a s'more." I looked over to my fiance and repeated what my stomach had said and he didn't reply. So I said it again. He nodded. Perplexed, I said, "Have you ever had a s'more?" He shook his head.

I panicked. "Do you know what a s'more is?"

He shook his head.

Well now I was just flustered. "You know a s'more!! A marshmallow and chocolate and graham cracker over a fire?"

And that's when he replied, "What's a graham cracker?"

Preheat oven to 350F. Place 2 1/2c wheat flour, 1 tsp baking soda, 1 tsp salt, 3 tsps cinnamon and 4 tablespoons cold butter into a mixer and combine until like wet sand.

I was stunned. I didn't know what to do. Eventually, I decided to describe a graham cracker to him. Okay, for those of you who know what a graham cracker is, really think that through. My description resembled something like a sighted person describing purple to the blind, only more cracked out.

"You see it's a cracker that's like a biscuit. Well, not like an Australian biscuit. It's not a cookie. It's like the kind of biscuit you get in America, that's not a cookie. I mean. Wait. It's more like a cracker. Well, not really. It's a sweet cracker. With like, honey in it. And it's not really crisp like a cracker. But it's not soft or crumbly like a cookie. It's.."

In another bowl combine 2 egg whites, 3/4c brow sugar, 4 tablespoons honey and 2 tsps vanilla bean paste . Combine into mixer slowly until sticky dough forms.

"I get what you're saying!" he says to me, smiling. "I want to try a s'more!"

I beamed, "Well then I'll make one! Why don't you get the graham crackers and stuff on the way home tomorrow and I'll make them tomorrow for the fight?"

He agreed.

What he came home with was. Well. It was exactly as I described. Only not. As it turns out, a graham cracker is a very specific thing, but when described can be about two hundred different types of things.

Flour everything. Flour your hands, your bench, the top of the dough and the rolling pin. I'm not kidding, man. This dough is insanely sticky and if you add flour to the dough directly it falls apart. Nice, eh?

My fiance came home with a giant half kilo (pound) bar of compound baking chocolate, raspberry and vanilla flavoured marshmallows and a bag of tea cookies. You know those little cookies that ladies who lunch eat directly after finger sandwiches to dip into their tea? Yeah. Those.

I tried. I really did. I put melted the chocolate and added some cream and sugar and used that. I only used the vanilla marshmallows. I... well, there was nothing I could do about the biscuits cookies crackers.

He loved it.

Roll out dough, slice, place on baking sheet and prick with fork. Brush tops with egg whites and sprinkle with sugar. Bake 15 minutes.

I'm not kidding you people. He ate like 7 of them. He said they were great! I was sick. I was grossed out. I ate perhaps 3 out of some desperate hope they got better over time (hey man, he was really convincing they tasted fantastic) before handing them all over to him. The next day I ate all the tea biscuits and he was upset because I couldn't make him more. Ha. I did it on purpose.

If graham crackers had a Myspace, this would be the angle they photograph themselves.

He was quite upset by this and asked me to make them again repeatedly. It got to the point I could not take him to the supermarket or he'd hold up the packet of tea biscuits and beg me for them like a five year old child. I absolutely refused to make them again. I would absolutely not use my powers of cooking to disgrace the power of the S'more, man.

After weeks of this ordeal, I finally got sick of it. In order to placate him I convinced him I would make my own damn graham crackers so he could have a REAL s'more.



So I did.

Duck Duck Duck

Back in farming news, I'm really excited spring is here. It's warmed up enough that strawberries are in season. I only have a tiny bush so there's only one strawberry a day but there it is, a nice ripe fresh red one each afternoon, warm from the sunshine. My tomtatoes have hundreds of flowers and quite a few small green fruit. My capsicum have started to fruit and change colour on some branches. My oranges, mandarins and blueberries are flowering. And best of all, my ducks are laying eggs!

It's so warm I'm getting my usual 7 eggs a day with the chickens, most of which I'm finally selling to pay for the food I give them (and still keep eggs on my table) and now, duck eggs! They're not fertilized because the boy duck doesn't know what mating is yet, but he's eager to be a daddy. He eagerly urges her to build a nest and protects her as she settles in on the chicken's egg, leaving her own unfertilized egg in the middle of the yard for me to find. They really don't get it.

Mangoes will be in season again soon. Lychees will be in season soon. My tomatoes will be bursting. I've grown asparagus from seed. I've got three lettuces coming up. My potatoes are an entire new tyre tall. My chicks are getting fat and mature and may lay eggs later this year. It's warm and beautiful and it rains just enough at night to make me dance at not having to water my lawn. I'm lazy! Yaaaay!

I'm trying to learn to be more frugal so I soaked beans to make veggie chilli last night and had leftover beans when I was done. I am mashing them with breadcrumbs and herbs and am turning them into bean patties for 'ham'burgers. Hopefully the boy won't notice.

Today a friend came over and I had no bread so I thought I'd make tortillas to make veggie wraps for her. They turned out perfectly. Seat of my pants, baby.

The Price of Food

I've been thinking lately about the price of food. How expensive homemade food can be if you don't have access to either land or money. The former of which costs a lot of money, as well. Slowly the world has started to adapt to more local means of eatins farm to city (CSA boxes and the like) but mostly, if you want a good fresh meal, it's going to cost you.

This is where little things, like windowsills and rent-a-gardens come in. For a minimal amount, you can rent little plots to grow your own food within the city. Finding a place on your way to work or other regular ventures (the gym, if you're stronger willed than me) is beneficial to finding the time to go and tend to it, as it may need watered daily in high heats.

I have about 200 mandarins I got two days ago. I juiced over half of them, and am leaving the rest to work on later. All these mandarins came from one tree. I thought about how much this juice costs. Should I have purchased the mandarins in the store, it would have been exceptionally cheaper to just buy pre-packaged juice, even the good kind. Getting it direct off the farm was just getting someone else's glut that would've rotted anyway; however it would've also cost me land to produce myself. Both things are pricey. So something like the most basic, fresh squeezed orange juice, is actually quite an expensive thing to produce. Not everyone can make it for themselves.

Of course if you can start getting to know your local farms, you can start getting a little bit of free excess as well. Usually for the price of some labour or something you have to offer (maybe your backyard has a mango tree) you can get the overstock of another's. It's just going to rot anyway, so the farmer is quite happy to get some stuff done in return for the over-abundance he'll have when entire trees ripen at once. Get to know the farmers at your local markets so you can start asking them when certain things will be in season, then you can start preserving them.

Eating in season feels so good. When your body adjusts to it, it feels 'right'. It feels like your skin is clearer, your mood is higher, your eyes are shinier.. I don't know. It could be because, automatically, eating in season tends to mean a person also eats healthier. (You're not really eating in-season packet chips, are you?) It just feels great to me.

Of course eating things you got in season in another season is awesome, too. Especially if you got yours direct from farm, you'll have preserved it at it's peak so it will taste much better than anything you could've bought, which was probably gassed, had a bunch of funny things added to it, and came from unripe berries and some other fillers that aren't on the label. Plus, with homemade product, you can always make 'twists', such as kiwi and papaya jam, which you could never get in the shops.

So, obviously I feel it's important to think about where your food comes from and how you can save money buying in a more direct manner. Food can be expensive but it doesn't have to be, if you know what you're doing and where you're going and if you're willing to put in a couple hours labour for it. It's totally worth it. If you had spent the money, you'd have never gotten that much plus the hard work makes you feel extremely content and productive for relatively easy work.

I have no point.

This Story Explains Me Pretty Well

I'm starting to think I might be a tad impulsive. Ah, who am I kidding, we all know I'm impulsive. I have the natural self-preservation instinct of a chicken. Anyone who's owned chickens knows they'd most probably just sleep as their beloved was being murdered next to them by a fox and then act surprised when they get eaten next - if they actually wake up for it. I'm fairly certain when a chicken is being eaten alive at night, it opens an eye and goes, "Gee, I'm being eaten. Oh well, as long as he doesn't wake me." So yes, my point is, this appears to be the level of self-preservation I have.

So this introduction leads me to my next story; where I somehow ended up in the rainforest with a complete stranger showing me around with a machete. Logically, this would be a very bad situation, right? Like - hello, 24 year old woman by herself with a strange man in a forest - clearly I have no sense of danger - or I have an incredible sense of adventure. My mother prefers the word 'wrecklessness'. Whatever you call it, it's gotten me into some crazy situations. Not all I've loved, but most of them I have.

So let's back up. My fiance has been talking on and on and on about this excavator he's been wanting for ages that's bogged down in some guy's back-alley hidden farm. $1500 and if he can fix it, he can have it. Apparently this is an excellent deal for excavators are expensive. I have no idea. All I know is The Boy asked me if I could go drive 2 hours after what amounted to enough sleep to barely function in normal society. So of course, by the time I get there, my already meager sense of not dying was lowered below it's usual reserves.

So we meet these two swagmen, right. Now, for Americans - swagmen are Outback bush ranger types without the ranger bit. They love the land and wear big boots and cut down trees and sleep under the stars and grow beards and, well, are men. Think Brokeback Mountain, but less gay. Or more gay - I haven't really figured it out. But these are the men that eat out of cans of beans they heated over a fire and since they don't have a fork, they just use their dirt-encrusted hands to scoop the beany goodness into their mouths. Those kind of men. Real men.

So they meet us with our white ute and trailer carrying a boat (this is another story) on their own four-wheelers. As they lead us through this huuuuge pathway between state forests, I start noticing bizarre looking orange trees. Bumpy little oranges dot the pathway. So do bizarre animals, trees, rivers and funny-shaped natural structures. Point being, I wasn't in Kansas anymore, Toto. As we're following these two swagmen on their four-wheelers, they are using a machete to cut down overhanging trees and branches, leading us up this windy dirt road for miles.

So, again, just to be clear - I don't know these men's names. I've never met these men. Neither has my fiance. My fiance's father, who is with us, is probably the only person who has someone at home waiting for him in case he turns up missing - but since my fiance had the address, she probably didn't really know where he went. So as we're bumping through a rainforest path following two men with machetes I came upon the realization that, hey, they could kill us and nobody would even begin to know where to look for us.

We finally get to the destination and, lo and behold, there really IS an excavator for my fiance to look at. Well, I'll be damned. So - not being one for digging things I got a bit bored and started poking at the four-wheelers, which the men had gotten off at this point. I mentioned to one of the bushmen that I saw some really funny orange trees and did he mind if I picked some oranges.

"Ah those be bush lemons mate! Not oranges. I've got a million of 'em. I'll chop down 10 trees and you can take 'em home with ya if ya want!"
I was a bit taken aback, "Uh that's not, er, necessary. I'd rather just pick a few."
He looked at his partner and pointed up to the hills, while still talking to me, "Well there be some juicy juicy lemon trees up in the mountain but you need the fourwheeler to get them. Hey Sammy, take the girl on the four-wheelers to get some lemons from the good trees!"

So, let me elaborate again. Bushman #1 says to Bushman #2, hey.. take this lady on a strange vehicle up a mountain, far away from us, so she can pick lemons. Oh, by the way, she doesn't know your name, my name, or if the machetes we use have ever killed people. Did I mention I'm impulsive?

Instead of the normal human reaction of, "Oh this is probably a bad idea." I went, "Cool!! I can drive a four wheeler and pick lemons!? Awesome!!!" Logically, at the time, this made perfect sense to me. Now, mind you, we're in a fucking rainforest. So there's no paths, no tracks... and a lot of logs, creeks and bumpy things. Oh, and I've never driven a four-wheeler except once and it was on flat land. I have, however, ridden dirt bikes. Once. So logically, I think, "This can't be much different, can it?!"

So after ten minutes trying to figure out why the clutch was actually a brake, I got the girl going at a level that was reasonable. However, my first task appeared to be 'cross this 6' deep gully with a river in the bottom of it'. "Okay!" my lack-of-proper-judgment-brain said to me, "I can do this!"

So. Riding a four-wheeler is pretty much exactly nothing like riding a dirt bike. Except the part where you hit the throttle and pray for the ever loving grace of G-d that you're going to make it over the top of the bend without falling over backwards and ending up underneath a four wheeler, in a ditch, covered in river, on fire. There's a joke in that last sentence.

Before I decided it was a brilliant idea to make my first trip on a four-wheeler to cross a freakin river, my fiance decided to give me advice.

"Now remember, when you're going down, lean back. When you're going up, lean forward."

Yep. That's it. Not, "Hey and if the jolly swagman decides to cut off your neck, be sure to roll your head this way so we know to run." or, "If the river starts to carry you away, hold your breath as long as possible." No, this is not the advice he gives me. "Lean forward on the up and back on the down," was the best he could do.

And me? I thought this was excellent advice. Because, apparently, as compulsive as I am - he is just as equally trusting. Go! Go risk your life crossing dams so you can pick lemons with an unknown swagman carrying a myriad of knives, but just rememeber, lean back on the down and forward on the up. Yep. That seemed good advice to me.

Glynn's father, who is probably a bit more logical than us, handed me a knife 'for the lemons' he said. So I pocketed this tiny little golden utility knife feeling perfectly safe that against a man with a machete, this would be adequate protection. Did I mention I'm impulsive?

I don't know how I managed, but I crossed the gully with the river in it just fine. Maybe it's because I leaned forward on the up. Most likely it's because I just went, "Shit shit shit shit shit," and hit the throttle. And of course LEAPED over the top edge of the gully. Which, if you've ever done it, is exactly what makes you love the damn vehicles. So, with a renewed sense of "Fuck yeah I can totally do this!" I followed the jolly swagman deep into the jungle to pick fucking lemons, man.

You know what's awesome about open-air vehicles that cover raw land? That the thing you want to do, as opposed to the thing you should be doing are two completely different things. So when you want to lean into a corner, you really...really...shouldn't. I wish I could draw you a picture but imagine me, young redheaded female, on a massive 4-wheeler, pretty much sideways on the side of a mountain leaning into the corner before going, "Shit, I think this is how you fall the fuck over." and suddenly trying to counter balance in the opposite direction.

I guess just picture a redheaded praying mantis stuck to a flying rock, sideways. Got that picture in your head? That's what I looked like. Oh, and I wasn't wearing a helmet. Of course. I was in the damn jungle and in the damn jungle YOU DON'T WEAR HELMETS. Got that? Although I don't know why I'm mentioning this. There's fucking machetes in this story - I don't think the helmet was really my biggest problem here.

So we got to the lemon trees. I know, I'm a bit surprised they existed too. Did you know that bush lemons are absolutely covered in spines? Yeah well I didn't.

(Photographic Evidence I am not dead)*

So we come back with our bags filled with delicious bush lemons and my man is still checking out the escavator. I tell Swagman #1 that I really loved his land and it was very pretty and I thanked him for the lemons. This is when he said to me, "You should see the waterfall!"

"Waterfall? There's a waterfall!?"
"Yeah mate, up in the forest on the mountain. She's a beaut. 8 feet deep and just beautiful."
"Do we have time to see the waterfall!?" I look at Glynn with big sooky eyes, just begging him to let me go out with a strange bushman carrying a foot-long blade once more into the forest on a vehicle I've never driven up a mountain over rocks with no helmet. Yeah, read that again. Glynn said, "Yeah sure, you can do that!"
What a good man.

So Swagman #2 takes me back up the mountain, but this time on a different path, a much less travelled path. Okay, it wasn't even a path. It was a bunch of broken twigs leading the way; and every now and then the swagman would stop and break more twigs 'to help guide the way again'. So when I say I'm in the middle of nowhere, I am not kidding.

Once more I am sideways praying mantis. Upside down praying mantis. Downhill praying mantis. Basically, I was slowly climbing a barely-trecked mountainside on this vehicle that couldn't go past 14km (because, yes, at this time I also thought "how fast can this thing go?" - however it might go up to 15 or even 16, considering I was going uphill on wet rocks at the time). This is when the swagman stops and points, "You see these trees lining the path? Yeah they're poison, I'd put on me jacket if I were you. This is why I wear gloves, mate."

Poison. Trees. What. The. Fuck. Australia.

Also, at this point I'm really praying the cut on my head really DID come from the lemon tree. After what seems to me to be about half an hour, we have to get off the vehicles and start walking because the four-wheelers valued at around $17k each couldn't go across this part even though they had just trekked up a fucking mountain. Dude.

Next thing I know I'm jumping down huge gullies, skipping rocks across gushing rivers and at one point I kid you not, I had to cross a beam of wood the men had cut around a rock to serve as a 3" deep platform you could hold onto the rock for balance and cross to get to the other side. Mind you I am wearing little platform shoes made of rubber and a trenchcoat, along with a glittery studded Guess top. Mind you, Swagman #2 was wearing steeltoed boots, utility pants, a Drizabone coat, thick leather gloves and was carrying a fucking machete. I still had my tiny gold utility knife. You know, for the lemons.

Finally the swagman says to me, "Here she is."

In front of me is quite possibly the most beautiful natural thing I have ever seen. A giant slab of water-worn rock rests atop a carefully balanced boulder, a sheet of thick crystal clear water slicing across the air. The rainforest trees, with their thick wet foliage and thick twisted vines encased the entirety of the waterfall in it's roots. Soft green luscious moss splattered the shiny gray wet rocks like something carefully painted by only the finest of French artists.

The best part. The best part was the sounds. If you closed your eyes you felt like you had turned your favourite Sounds of the Rainforest CD on surround and managed to have million-dollar speakers. It was the live version of a natural symphony. The music of the rainforest was incredible. Cicadas wrote lovesongs in the trees. Parrots played among the twisted vines, announcing their adoration for the waterfall in playful clucks. The waterfall pounded on the rocks in front of me, the sounds of rushing water heavy and thick and so incredibly close. The hairs on my arms stood on end.

"Cleanest water you'll find. You should try some." he said as he pointed to the fall with his knife.

I couldn't help it. I had to do it. I climbed down the last couple feet to the base of the fall and skipped the slimy slippery wet rocks across the gushing river and shovelled both hands directly into the gushing water. Three times I drank from the beautiful pure rainforest waterfall, the splashes soaking my coat and hair with beads of crystalline droplets. Feeling as if more than three mouthfuls would render me 'greedy', I pulled away from the moment. I swear I could hear the ripping sound of my brain being snapped back into the real world.

I climbed back up the fall, back across the wooden plank, back through the rivers and gulleys, back onto the ATVs, back sideways down the mountain and back into the real world.

So this is the story of how I followed strangers into the rainforest without knowing a thing about what I was getting into and having one of the most beautiful moments imaginable. I'm fairly certain that when you do something so wreckless, there should be consequences, not rewards. So I'm guessing this will end up being the story of how I got Cholera. Watch.

*Textual evidence I exaggerate greatly.

Wet And Cold

It's a rainy day here on the mini-farm and I made chicken stock to replenish what I have been leeching from the freezer these last few months. I made 5 litres of stock and the girls got all the bones and filling (the oranges were from earlier, I don't put oranges in my stock) all nice and toasty warm to keep them happy during the wet.

I love the soggy little bastards, they're fun to watch. Steamin' pile of food and they're still chasing each other around the backyard for a piece of carrot when there's half a dozen more carrots on the floor.

I've been given a billion (53) eggs by them in the last couple weeks. I'm looking at about 150 eggs a month or so, right now. Geeeeze. I don't need THAT much protein. Luckily I've got some friends in desperate need of eggs and have managed a trade for goods or money with a few of them. My favourite might just be my super Italian friend from a super Italian family giving me some Napolitana sauce in return for some. Oh yeah, no pressure. P:

I plan on making a good 2kg batch of handrolled pasta when I get the chance. That'll use 20 eggs by itself. I can roll out thin lasagne sheets and dry them for future use and then do some fettuccini as well. A nice large batch will keep me in pasta for awhile and only use 3 days worth of eggs! ....help.

Blueberries!

Just so I don't feel like I'm depressing the ever loving heck out of my readers - here's a photo of my current joy - my blueberries! I had one bush for a rather long time before I discovered I needed two to make berries (my mother never did really explain sex to me).

I got another but then in some unfortunate mishap, it passed away - or dried out - or something. Either way, it looks like a dried up stick in a pot. In some feeble attempt at horticultural necrophilia, I stuck them side by side anyway. Well, maybe that dead berry had some get up and go left in him or maybe his dying wish was to berry-up his friend, but I got berries coming in this year!! I'm hoping to plant some and make another dead stick for it to mate with next year. Maybe 20 or 30, because, damn, I really love blueberries.

I hope this time next year we have some land so I don't have to keep berries in pots and I can let them explore my home and then I can explore their berries with my face.

Honeymoon

I'm thinking about my honeymoon right now. I keep telling everyone my fiance and I plan to see Greece but I'm not entirely sure anymore. I wanted to go to Prague awhile ago but money problems arose from my last relationship. So I seem to have a general lust for Europe. I just switch sides.

However, I thought, why does a person need to do all the stereotypical things on a honeymoon? Why can't I go out and do something completely different? Something that might change my whole perspective on life and freedoms? Well, maybe because that's not like me at all. Of course not! I would never go randomly into a new country and follow a road less travelled. Of course not. Never done it before.

So I present to you, my idea. I want to walk the El Camino de Santiago, the Way of St. James, to Santiago de Compostela. I have been studying it here and there over the last couple years and it's something I definitely want to do before I die. I've spoken about it often to friends and even made pacts with friends I deemed 'good enough to spend a few weeks hike with' to travel this road together. I promised even if I did it, I would do it again just for them and be their guide. This is the way of the road.

I read stories of the Templar Knights and of the promises made to the people and of how it all came crumbling down. I've read about the scallop shells and the protection and magick (though the Christians might not like that part) surrounding the road beneath the Milky Way. Follow the stars, follow your heart, follow your dreams - travel through history and become a part of the world as it once was.

I want to earn my Compostela, which is a certificate presented to pilgrims who have travelled 100km or more by foot. I want to do a little more than this, as this is one of the shorter routes, only taking about a good strenuous 2 days hike or 3-4 days with stops and relaxing. I would like to collect all the stamps possible in a two weeks period, before ending up in Santiago, with a prayer and a compestela.

Not your classic honeymoon destination, I wouldn't think. However, it would be one you would never forget, not for a moment. "Remember how after we got married, we strapped backpacks to ourselves and walked the Road to Santiago?" And we'll display the stamps and compestela in the glass cases of our house and speak fondly of those days until the road calls us back to be guides for the next pilgrims.

Sure, in my head it's fantastical and romantic. I know it's rough and complicated and dehydrating and the packs are heavy. I know it's a lot of walking. I know it's a lot of remembering some semblance of the Spanish I was once fluent in. I am fine with this. I would be proud to undertake the challenges of the Road in the name of Gd and feel history beneath me feet.

If not for my honeymoon, another day. I hate saying 'another day' though, because that's what people always say before they tuck away their dreams for a day that never comes. Still, I speak fondly of taking this trip every time the topic of travel comes up. Maybe it's not the worst idea I've had. But then again, I've had some pretty bad ideas.

C'est la vie.

Such is life. No more, no less. Such is life. Why then, are these words considered so negative? Never are they used to describe happy events. And yet, in an of themselves, they are very neutral. So why do we not say, "Today I relaxed on the beach with my toes in the sand. Ah, c'est la vie!"? I think we should. Change the drudgery of our daily expressions to be just that bit more positive.

This goes for a lot of things - and it's also advice I myself need to take more. In and of themselves, words, people, objects and feelings are neither negative nor positive - it is simply the projection of our own bias we use to make them so. I vividly recall "horrible" events in my life that I woed over for many days before they magically seemed to turn into great wonderful things.

Take my meeting my fiance, for a small example. I met him because my motorbike decided it was not going to turn off. Ever. The ignition had broken and I was devastated. I had only had the bike for a few months! I got a couple offers from some dirty old man to fix it, but declined out of some sort of fear he might hurt me. When I continued to look for a new ignition I was met with much resistance. Bike shops had closed down for good. Parts were hard to source. Excuses were made.

Finally the dirty old man said to me, "I have the part right here if you're willing to come and get it." I so was not. I was scared, I admit, that he might use this way 'in' as an attempt to sleep with me. I was right, I suppose. Turns out the dirty old man was actually rather young, but still dirty (not minded! just dirty! covered in it!). He fixed the part for me, somehow convinced me to see him and again and my horrible messed up motorbike turned into me begrudgingly meeting some man I didn't want to meet - only to be marrying him in near one hundred days now.

Obviously the 'bad' in this example is not very bad, but I make a small point still. I have had much worse things happen in my life that have also turned good (one of these days I'll tell you how I ended up in Australia) but at the time, I didn't think they were good at all. Ranging from the time I was homeless to my husband leaving me for a teenage girl - those horrible things would not have put me in the place I am now.

So, I'd like to make a small suggestion. Not to you, not to me, just to the anyone who wants to think about it or consider for a moment their own lives. All those moments you sighed longingly and said to yourself, "C'est la vie," in frustration at something plaguing your life - that it didn't end up so bad after all. Even the worst things in life have meaning - this I know from the bottom of my heart. So perhaps we need to change not the definition but the feeling behind the words we say.

C'est la vie. Such is life. And it can be great.

Happy and Mad!

I am up and down today. My moods keep either being really happy with life or really angry at people. I think both are still true.

The male has gone to a trip to my most favourite place ever and left me behind. To be fair, he's going for work and to be fair, I'm still in the midsts of some bizarre liver failure (more on that later). It's not like I could go if I wanted. Boo!

I'm happy with it though. We don't spend enough time apart where he just does his own thing and I do mine. We're either together - or he's at work. No inbetween. It's not that I'm sick of him it's just that the bastard (false, his parents were and still are married) really needs his own hobbies and life away from me. So now he's at a pub, hopefully drinking his arse off. I've directed him to the nearest strip club and am glad I'm the one holding the credit card. If his work is done before the arvo tomorrow he promised to go into the city and buy me my favourite chocolates! Yay! They don't have them in Brisbane.

I have plans that involve George Clooney now. I invited him over for some champagne and orange juice (he can drink, but I can't). No, I'm not delusional, I just like making up stories in my head and pretending they're real. Delusional would be BELIEVING they're real. Completely different. Completely.

I rented a couple George Clooney flicks and there's some salmon baking in the oven so I can make this recipe for cauliflower fritters. Fresh salmon instead of smoked. Eh. I setup a blanket on the floor of the livingroom and am about to climb into my most comfortable pyjamas to settle in for the night. Paint my nails. Read a book in the tub later with some of my bathbombs. I might make a bubble bar tonight too, seeing as I ran out the other day. I love being crafty!

The bad parts were really, once more, my doctor's negligence over my health and, once more, Telstra's negligence over my service. I guess what people and companies don't realize is I...kinda don't give up. My fiance told me Telstra pulled the same stuff with him and he just gave up. I refuse to. There's a LOT of flaws with their claims in rebuttal to my claims and I'm gonna wring 'em. Yay! As for the doctor - I have a specialist lined up for a second opinion already. On. The. Ball! Boo-yah!

There's a list of four diseases I might have. Some are just flu type things. Some can reoccur so I need to be careful if I have those and some I carry for life, but can manage. Nothing is deadly, which is remarkable news. Of course, this is just preliminaries - the specialist can confirm or deny my results for me on Thursday next week. Each disease, though, my doctor says, WILL leave me tired and exhausted for a long time. All of them cause severe tiredness for months. Nice.

Still can't go back to work. Ah well. I was thinking of working from home. I sometimes work as a chat hostess and can make anything, depending on how hard I decide to work. And it's freelance so I can take a break whenever I need if I feel my liver acting up. (Ever felt your liver? It's WEIRD.) I dunno, I just HATE not working. I love working and I love bringing in money and I love saving it.

Speaking of which, I did my taxes. I love doing that too. I think it triggers that little niggly slightly-OCD side of me (I should really check if I actually have OCD... I mean, really.. I organize my cans alphabeticallty by type, name and then size [like fruit-apples is before vegetables -peas]). Anyway - I liked it. I spent all day yesterday relaxing doing my taxes and drinking coffee and getting excited when I remembered another receipt. I managed over 4k in deductions on the car!! Score one for Lizzer!

So yeah... basically what I said. Happy with life. Mad at people. Life IS good. Stressful, but good. I have salmon. How can life not be good?

A post about nothing in particular.

Bleh, I'm still sick. Don't know what happened but Tuesday last week when I went to hospital I came out fine and feeling great (yay for fluids!). Wednesday a little run down but still great. Thursday amazing. Friday, amazing - but that's when the results came back for the second round of blood. Saturday, run down massively from shopping with Sam and Aaron, Glynn's best mate (and best man) and his missus - loved the company though. Sunday - did a loooot of stuff from home, a bit of driving and spare-part pickup. Lots of cooking, and was worn out and needed a nap by 2pm. Ergh. Clearly I over-exert myself reguarly and it needs to stop.

I've gotten a heavy cough and sneezing in the last two days, which is new. I also keep feeling stomach pains - but part of me thinks it's purely mental. I didn't feel them really too much (except in nausea and, *cough*, gas) until I got my results, which leads me to believe I'm overreacting in that department. Of course, being aware you're over reacting doesn't really stop you over reacting. C'est la vie.

I'm really enjoying today, though, so far. I've been taking it easy. I have lunch with my man and his boss today, which I will look forward to. Glynn's boss is rather lovely. He's Muslim, so we're pretty mean to each other, but we never mean it. It's a back and forth Jew and Muslim comedy act and then a handshake and a laugh - every time. It's nice to get along and joke with your partner's boss. It helps me feel that his job is more secure, which helps my stress levels considerably considering work has been slow for me these days (I'm actually not allowed to work - doctor's orders).

I'm a little annoyed I can't get into my training for the fitness comps. I'm doing low-impact low-heart rate yoga and thai chi type moves but the second I feel too much stress, I have to sit down, which is about every 20 minutes of slow gentle working out. Luckily this type of training is pretty good for muscle definition on leaner muscles, which I do need to work on (and never do because I dislike low-impact workouts generally) so hopefully it will help a bit.

Other than that - the day is nice. It's warm but a little hazy and slow-feeling, which is quite nice. The ducks and chickens have been acting super cute and funny this morning, at one point gathering at the backdoor pecking at it, asking to be let in. I don't know when or how my chickens decided the inside of the house was available for them, but Glynn's been keeping squirt bottles by couch so he can shoot them (just like the carnival game!) when they try. Logically, I could just, y'know close the door, but honestly, I like watching them come inside and they tend to eat all the seed around the bird cages, which saves me valuable sweeping time.

My sleep has been on and off. I've had a lot of vivid dreams, which is normal for me, but they've been waking me up a lot - which is not normal for me. Back in the day (1 1/2 years ago about) I had severe insomnia for, oh, 16 years. Pills, doctors, meditation - nothing worked. It was bad. Hypnotherapy, for some reason (and I swear before I tried I thought it was a load) worked insanely well. After a week I was sleeping through the night and for a year and half now, until this sickness came in, I'd been sleeping really really well. Nine hours a night, one quick wake-up to use the toilet, back to sleep quickly and waking up exceptionally happy and well-rested.

So now my dreams are waking me up. Weird dreams too. Dreams like me freaking out because a chocolate cake recipe asked for 3 cups of water and "THAT WONT MAKE A CAKE!" and me flipping out so badly I wake up in a sweat - unable to go back to sleep because the second I do that three cups of water starts to haunt me. Or last night my dream was about, of all things, me freaking out because I really needed to make soup. Dreams are like that, though - something is either going wrong you can't fix or you need this most random object ever and spend the entire dream looking for it. Or you dream you're losing your teeth. 99% of the time it's one of the three - for me anyway. (and the majority of my friends when we discussed it once)

Really now, I think I'm just rambling about my life. What else am I supposed to do right now? Last night, the boy cleaned the kitchen. I need to sweep and have lunch and other than that, I'm really really supposed to be relaxing.

I have about 4 dozen oranges I've slowly accumulated from my fruit and veg boxes (you'd be SO suprised how long food lasts when you buy it direct from the farmer - I've had avocados last 3 months in my fridge!). I really need to preserve them. It's a real shame I don't like marmalade (except madarin marmalade! SOOOOOO good.) otherwise I'd just make up like 20 jars of the stuff. I suppose I still can, actually! Christmas presents anyone?

I tend not to buy people presents for Christmas, not because I'm Jewish but because I really don't like holidays that focus on gift giving just for the sake of gift giving (like, I also dislike Valentine's Day - since it's mostly used these days as a reminder to give someone something instead of showing love). Granted, I celebrate Chanukkah, but the way I do it is much more focused on the religion aspect than the gift-giving aspect.

I was caught totally off-gaurd and unprepared last year when a giant box of Chanukkah presents showed up, 8 wrapped in gold and 8 wrapped in silver - for Glynn and I - from his mother and sisters. I actually literally cried when I opened it up and saw the little cards and gifts. Every single thing was picked out specifically for our personalities. It was so touching and sweet and unexpected.

I got chocolate face masks, chocolate pasta, a wooden-handled cake tester (I had told mother I just use pasta to test cake and apparently she thought I needed one - how sweet!), a book on homemade beauty treatments, and various other wonderfully picked items and Glynn got a book on toilet humour, some tweezers (he did need them), and some candles and soaps that matched the ones I got, but were just that slight bit more masculine. Bath time on night 8 was awesome!

That memory is another that will live with me forever. Just the ultimate kindness and consideration and overall surprise was touching and shows the wonderful generosity of my future husband's family - which of course must be where he got it from.

So this year, I definitely need to return the love for Christmas - although his mother makes WAY better jams and marmalades than I do and I've already made her enough soap to last her a couple years. Challenging! I'm actually looking forward to Christmas this year. I plan on making most of my gifts and it's good because I know they'll be appreciated.

Whoops, need to get ready for lunch. I spent an hour writing nothing! Yay!

Memory, all alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then.

I'm not one to fondly remember my past and talk about it in length. It's not that I don't like my past, it's that once things are over - I tend not to really think about them much unless it comes up in conversation or someone reminds me (such as my Bill Bryson Down Under and my Racehorse Billionaire posts were both because someone reminded me).

So I was a bit surprised last night when I found myself looking through old photos of myself. I notice the distinct lack of any photos Pre-Australia, but hey, Australia's been a fun place. I never really took full advantage of America while I lived there. I saw a lot of it - the entire West Coast, the entire highway down the Mississippi (which hits like, New Orleans, Detroit, Little Rock, Chicago and a whole slew of other landmarks I can barely remember at the moment, and definitely not in that order).

According to my mother, I saw a lot of the middle too, but I don't recall a moment of it. Nor do I have photos of my numerous trips to Mexico, Canada, or the Redwood forests. A pity, really. I simply did not appreciate what I had enough to feel photos were necessary. Now, I'm almost an obsessive photo taker. Who cares, though? I have a million wonderful funny things I probably would barely remember had I not taken photos, gone through them and smiled at the memory. So my camera might annoy some people - it's been worth it.

So - I leave my photographic memories to those of Australia, simply because that's when I started taking photos of things. I would like to share some with you. A little piece of my past, to greater understand the person who does all the things she does - or just to mock the silly lifestyle I have had. Either one.

---

This photo is the first photo I ever got with my new motorbike. I remember my 22nd birthday was fast approaching and I was really upset that between the ages of 21-22, I had done nothing to improve my life. So I decided to get a motorbike licence. As you do. I decided on Kiki, the beautiful 1989 Honda CBR250R. She's my girl. She's a bit small for me now, but she's going to be with me forever. Someday soon I plan on teaching learners how to ride on her.


This photo is from the time I married myself. What? Yes, you heard me right. After a particularly nasty break-up (those who know me will remember the time I was BILLED for my relationship) I decided I wanted to marry myself! What better use for that dusty dress I had planned on marrying someone else in? This photo was taken by the amazing Greg Morgan, a rather colourful-looking but down to earth fellow who just likes to smile and have fun. You always know he's around because he jingles from his multiple piercings. Anyway, I really had this shoot to sell the dress - but figured while I was in mourning over a relationship AND on Facebook, I'd make a fake me and marry myself. I posted this and some others as proof I married myself. The dress is still for sale. Damn resale value.


For a few months, an ex-pro motorbike racer took me under his wings and taught me how to ride. He worked with me on simulators (this photo) and on my own personal bike. He taught me how the pros do it, but from a newbie viewpoint. He taught me all about camber of the road, how to read a road and how to properly lean in the corners. I will forever be grateful to him for doing this for me. I still, to this day, ride in a very much racer-position (I even get mocked for it by other riders! "What do you think you're doing? racing?!") thanks to the positioning he taught me. Without him, I would be an exceptionally poor rider. He literally saved my life on the roads. Thank you, Redroo!

This is from when I decided to convert to Judaism. This is the shul that yes or nos you in Melbourne. This time I was no'd. Repeatedly. Seven times, actually. (That three thing? yeah, turns out, it's a MINIMUM, not a guarantee) I was really happy to have come all this way to see this beautiful shul, so I took a photo in front of it. I spent much time on this trip studying Judaism so I could convert. It was a major turning point in my belief in Gd, my diet, my lifestyle and my faith. I am so proud of myself for undertaking this experience and connecting myself to a higher power - even if it's not for everyone, it really did help straighten me out a bit.

This is the day Glynn proposed. This is my first photo ever where I'm wearing my new ring. I like this photo because it shows the love we have for each other in something a little crude like a public kiss. I remember when I picked out my ring, the silly male was given it by the clerks to give to me and he turns to me, holding the ring in the palm of his hand and says, "Here ya go!" and hands it to me! So romantic! I also remember running back and forth along the Queen Street Mall in 5" heels so I could transfer money over to the credit card so we could buy the ring (no I didn't buy it myself, my fiance had his money in my account after selling his house - trust, man) and the shop was closing. They opened JUST so I could have my ring. It was a terrible idea, as I spent the entire drive home in peak hour traffic staring at my hand instead of the road.

This is from when my girlfriend and I were Indy girls, about 4 years back. We found, of all things, celery in the bathroom of our hotel. So we thought we'd be silly. This isn't a huge memory, but it's a fun one. I recall a lot about Indy and generally getting my teenager wild-on a few years too late. I didn't do drugs or anything, but I had a good time. With celery in my ear, apparently.

This is just from the time I mud-wrestled the dog and won. WHAT? It's a good memory. I won, didn't I?!

I remember when my girlfriend (not the one shown above) and I decided to take up belly dancing. We decided to try to find one in my area before the city but were a bit, um, disappointed. Some moves were so basic, we already knew them and at one point, the lady was counting beat and said, "1...2... what was the next number? Geeze it's okay if I lose count at 8, but at 2?!" Ha. It was quite adorable, really, but not for us. So we learned via Ambyr in the city instead and last year did a show for my partner's birthday where we bellydanced for him and took him to dinner. You never saw a man so happy - two bellydancers on his arms at dinner. He looked like he won the jackpot.

And finally, from the time my fiance and I went on a 3 day getaway to the mountains. This is honestly one of my best memories. I was really woo'd on this trip by my wonderful partner. We went to the markets and got gourmet foods and soaps. We fell in love all over again, really. It was just after we got engaged. An engagement-party if you will, just us. This is the Escarpment Resort on Mount Tamborine. We went on picnics and watched the sun set over the countryside from the top of the mountain.

It's the little things in life I remember most fondly. Kindness, love, passion, learning - all those things are what really made my life these last few years truly special. I will treasure these times as long as I live.

Reminiscing

This is a good photo with a nice story. My girlfriend and I were in Gove, NT working as waitresses. You can sort of see the pool next to the hotel I was working at. Those houses are about all there is of Gove and that's about it for a good long while.

During the night one night, a helicopter came down to work on some Telstra lines in the area. Apparently, Gove is so far away from anything, they helicopter in tech support. Ha!

We had worked about 12 hours and it was extremely late when my girlfriend decided she was going to at that very moment find the pilots and get us a first thing in the morning ride in the 'copter. Luckily for us they had been in the bar and we hadn't realized it (they really didn't look like pilots) and they stumbled back drunkenly to the helicopter.

"You're not gonna fly in that condition!" I yelled.
"Nah, mate. Just checkin' to make sure she's still here." He patted the machine.

That's when my girl swooped in with her charm and grace and begged the men to take us up in the 'copter first thing in the morning.

"Only if you get us some rum." he said. Rum was hard to get after the bar closed. It's illegal for liquor to be sold after a certain time. It's also illegal to get beer unless you return an equal number of bottles. Some really weird liquor laws up there. Anyway, we had no way of getting rum! So my girlfriend begged and promised the next day they'd get a rum for free at the bar.

I don't really recall what happened, but I don't recall them ever getting rum and I recall us going to bed with the knowledge that, at 7am, we were going up in a helicopter to see the beaches of the NT from the sky. We were there at 7. By 8, we thought they weren't gonna show. By 815, we had gotten in the 'copter and were starting out way up!

It was so beautiful from up there. You could see the little tiny shops all along the street (just one, really) and a pile of tents (no idea who for) next to the beach. It was warm and beautiful and the sun was shining and it was amazing. I think we only spent 10-15 minutes in the air, but it was a real wonderful start to the day. It was almost a shame work started at noon.

Sometimes I feel so blessed to know I got paid for doing something like this.

The next day, another waitress left and asked us if we wanted the last half of her bottle of rum.

The Month of Living - Day 16

My liver is failing. I didn't want to say anything to everybody too soon, because it was just one test result - but now it's two. As of twenty minutes ago I was informed my liver is showing all signs of failure for some reason or another. I've been given a third emergency blood test and should know Monday what is causing this to happen.

I am not allowed any strenuous exercise. I am not allowed much at all. I've been ordered to not even go for my morning jog or eat anything with fat in it or even really do much other than stay rested as much as I can. I am not even allowed to work. Obviously, the MMA fighting is off for now.

You know what I am thinking right now? I am alive. Right now at this very moment - I am alive. I can feel the plastic of the keyboard beneath my fingers and that is wonderful.

There is a very small (but very real) chance I might die. There's a million things they can do before it comes to that, yes - but it's there. It's small and it's unlikely, but it's there. And you know what? So what. So I might die. I'm alive now. And there's really something to be said for that.

I am going to take each day as they come right now and I am going to be so very happy that I am alive for this moment - because life can be taken away so easily. And I suppose, that was the entire point of this month since Day 1, was to learn to appreciate that moment of existence in here and now and go, "Screw tomorrow. Screw yesterday. I can't change either one nor can I predict the latter - what matters is I am alive and here TODAY. I can change today."

I should never have had a Month of Living. I should have had a Day. Because each damn Day you're alive is a damn good one. The hard part is really never forgetting that.

The Month of Living - Day 15

Tomorrow I am going to pay someone to beat the crap out of me. You heard me right. I am paying a human male the size of a Mack truck to punch and kick me until I may or may not have broken bones. Or at least, I'm paying him to teach me to beat the crap out of other people.

I'm not sick anymore and unlike the meditation thing I said I'd do once I wasn't sick - I instead signed myself up to be trained as a pro MMA female fighter.

I figure you can't say you've lived until you've spit blood.

The Month of Living - Day 5

I've come to a rather shocking issue that I didn't think would crop up in this adventure. I already live my life pretty much by the seat of my pants as it is! So learning to do it is becoming a challenge because I simply don't know what else I can do.

On the full moon of this month I am joining a couple friends with some runes and Ouija boards in a cemetary to speak to the dead as a fun little adventure, but honestly, I'd probably do that without this month to sponsor the idea. Frankly, I stole the idea from my friend Sharon, who can't make it to the event SHE brought up one day during lunch. Yep, not only do I steal, I don't even bother to make sure the person I stole from can enjoy the event, haha.

I'm also going to see Outback Spectacular this month. I also have plans to drive to the middle of nowhere and skinny dip in a, most likely, crocodile infested river. (It's Australia, it's better to assume things will kill you - and then just get over the idea and do shit anyway).

I am reading this book called Down Under by Bill Bryson and in it, the author travels Australia and tells Australian stories of things he heard. I have been to just about (well, actually, so far, ALL) of the places Bill has mentioned. I even took the same walk along the same path in Bondi he did when he was in Sydney. I even have been to the same exact beach and soaked my toes in the same exact water as the story he told where a kid was severely stung by box jellyfish. I have already BEEN living! For fuck's sake, I jumped in a famous box jellyfish (read: deadliest creature in the WORLD) infested ocean knowing full well it could right kill me.

I have steered a camel across the centre of Australia, in Ayers Rock. I have driven to the countryside and sung Australian folk songs with people missing teeth (and had broken limbs from, get this, bull riding) around a bonfire made of old Bridgestones. I have flashed my ass to 30,000 people at the same time to a group of dirtbike stunt enthusiasts at a Crusty Demons show (and I got $150 for the priviledge!). I made out with a sword swallower seconds before I dakked him in front of the same show to show his girly red lacey knickers. Sad to know, if you were ther, that it was staged, isn't it? The part where I made out with the sword swallower wasn't though - that was just me being a dag, just like the time I stole a pair of footy shorts from a famous Cronella Shark.

I have climbed down unknown stairs in an alleyway in Adelaide without knowing what was in the depths of the rickety wooden dark entrance (an antique shop, with damn good prices, actually). I have mustered cattle in Australia and bought designer heels in LA. I have travelled across the entire damn globe with nothing to my name but a suitcase of clothes and a few hundred dollars.

I have gotten drunk on mead at renfaires. Hell, I've even made the mistake of being married once before (though my divorce papers clearly show a SEVEN YEAR gap in my ability to do THAT one again). I've lived in snow. I've lived in sunshine. I've lived in the shadows of buildings taller than some people can begin to imagine. Hell, I hold almost three passports. Once this year is done, I will have that third one in my hands. I am literally 5 months away from that. After my marriage, my husband can get British and I will hold four. Four damn passports. By the age of 24. How the FUCK am I NOT living already? Honestly.

New experiences are what I do best, damn it. I take the piss out of life and pretty much have little regard for the human capacity to, well, die easily. I think that's what makes me Australian. Yes, I know I'm NOT Australian, but it's what makes me one. Aussies are good at the not fearing death thing. You pretty much have to be to live here. Of course, I've noted, a lot of Aussies really don't live, even though they don't fear death like a normal person does. They go to work, have a beer at the pub, go home, eat dinner and wake up the next day to do it again. Every now and again they dreamily talk about hiring a camper van and settling off to the Outback to 'live', which they finally do when they're somewhere in their late 60s, if they can afford it.

So what, exactly, am I supposed to DO this month? Be myself? The self-improvement aspect of this month is quite nice, however, and I am keeping up with that in getting dancing lessons and singing lessons to tide my learning desire over for the month. After that, I pretty much do exactly what I say already.

I've never stolen a street sign with my name on it (which is more common than a 'roo here to have streets named after me) and I'd like to do that, but that's kinda highly illegal and stupid to post about if I did end up doing it. Part of me is like, "Fuck I'm 24 and I've never done this 15 year old thing of stealing a street sign! I am more mature than that now, so I shouldn't do it." and another part of me is picking exactly where the damn sign should go on my wall. Ha. But really, I doubt theivery is considered living and probably won't do that one. If you see a street sign at my house, I paid for it, really I did.

So now it's time to figure out how to bump my life up a notch. And for the fucking life of me, I don't know how. Suggestions?